Waking to a Nightmare
by Icca
Summary: A glimpse into the coffin as Vincent first wakes up to find himself entombed and his mind adjusting to the fact.


Waking to a Nightmare

Upon awakening, the first sensation was one of self. He existed. He was himself and separate from the rest of the world. Who he was or where he was did not matter. It did not, in fact, even cross his mind. What was important was that he was.

He, himself, existed, floating in a world of black. This was a comfort. He was warm, safe, secure, tucked away beneath a midnight blanket. Vision failed him in the darkness, and even that was strangely comforting. The world outside the dark, the world that could be revealed by cruel light, was a mystery, but the darkness shielded him from that mystery, from the possible pain-

_Pain, blood, the sound of metal teeth meeting flesh. Pain. The metallic, acrid taste of blood. My throat raw from screaming. He is laughing, full of malice, hate. Pain, all-encompassing, suffocating, maddening. Blood, spilling freely-_

-that the world of light might hold. And the darkness allowed him to hide from the outside world as well, kept him safe, away from others' eyes.

_Eyes filled with hate, maniacal glee, madness._

He explored the feeling of self, became dimly aware of form. Yes, he had a form, a body, a head, four limbs. And the form should be able to move. He could move, clumsily and slightly, but not far in any one direction. Something was stopping him from moving, restricting him-

_Leather straps holding me down. I'm just a toy for him. Can't move, can't escape. A rat caught in a trap. This isn't right! I don't deserve this! I'm not a rat, not an animal! Have to escape; have to get away; have to fight; have to run; have to-_

-to the point where his legs could bend a bit, but not fully, where his arms were stuck near his sides. A thought flickered through his mind, a thought of a child in its mother's womb, a baby waiting to be born, all sins of a past life cleaned from the child's soul. That was an odd thought. Where did it come from? Still, a comforting thought.

Perhaps he was a baby, waiting to be reborn into the world, cleansed of sins-

_A sinner; I am a sinner. I deserve this torture. Atonement is impossible for one as far gone as I. I failed her, failed the most important task in my life. I failed her, I caused her pain, her suffering, her-_

-of a past life. Everything would be alright now, and he would be forgiven.

Forgiven for what? What had he done that he needed to be reborn to be cleansed of his sins? What kind of monster had he been?

_Monster. Even before the changes, modifications, transformations, I was a monster. A monster with the mistaken impression that it was human. That it had human emotions, a human soul. But I am a monster, preying on others; I have no soul, was wrong to ever think I did. I realize this. The pain and the voices have taught me this._

He still had no name to give himself, and felt that that a name for himself was important. A name was significant, something he needed for his identity of his self. While contemplating his name, he began to hear a voice whispering from his hazy memories. It was soft and caring yet full of confidence: it was perhaps a mother's voice, perhaps a lover's voice. "Vincent," the shade murmured. The thought gave him goosebumps, the voice he was remembering, or dreaming, perhaps, gave him goosebumps. Yes, a lover's voice-

_Pain, suffering. Focus on something else, think of something else, think of her. Her gentle, warm touch, soft breath against my cheek. She brought out emotions in me, emotions I had long-since sequestered away for the sake of the job. I loved her - no I love her. She loves me-no, she loved me. I caused her pain, hurt, suffering. Her child, my child? His child? Her child. Her life, her future. I, my actions took those from her. This pain I deserve. Death is too good for me. It hurts, it hurts, there's so much blood. The pain is blinding me. I deserve this, I called it upon myself. It is my punishment for my sins._

-speaking his name in a gentle tone. Vincent, he was Vincent.

With the name came realization of who – of what - he was. It brought the understanding that he was not a child waiting to be reborn. He was a man, one who had died, but who would not be reborn, for he had never rested. His soul had not returned to the Planet. He was alive. And he was dead. But death was something he could not reach, no matter how far he stretched his fingers.

Was it? He lifted his arm, his right arm, for his left felt heavier and more difficult to move, and started to reach forward. He was blocked. The womb that he was trapped in would not let him stretch. No, this place that he was in was not a womb. It was a box.

_They're lifting me, moving me. Where? Why? I don't want them to move me. I want to scream, but I can't make a sound. Where are they putting me? Why are they repulsed? It hurts too much. Don't touch me, it hurts. A box. I'm being put in a box. Maybe I can sleep here. Maybe it's over. Maybe the pain will fade. Blinding pain. Make it end._

Yes, he was in a box, the comfort he had felt before from the lack of free movement began to feel like malicious restriction. Constriction. The darkness around him was holding him down, pushing on his limbs, pressing against his chest. Breathing was difficult, labored. The safety of the box was becoming questionable. He could remember being placed into the box, but why? He couldn't remember. He did not want to be in the box.

He pushed against it with his right hand, and it did not yield. He lifted his left-

_-Blood, spilling freely from my left arm. The sawing, the sawing of my flesh, severing bone, muscle, and the blood. The pain. All I can focus on, cannot focus on. The pain, blood, redness, blackness, blindness. Voices in my brain. Madness? The pain, it is mine, my atonement. Inhumane pain, sadism! No, I'm not human. I am a rat, an experiment. Darkness; why can't I see? Everything hurts. I can still feel my arm. It's not there, though, is it? Pain, blood, laughter. Whose laughter? Am I laughing? Am I crying? Are the screams mine? Or is the laughter mine?_

-arm, and it was heavier and clumsier than the right. It felt different from the right arm, and he could not place why that would be. He lifted it though, pressing it against the lid as well. Again, it wouldn't budge. He was trapped here, forever? He would suffocate. Starve. Dehydrate. He would go mad, if he were not mad already. The thoughts flickering in his mind, the laughter he could hear now, off in the distance, this was indicative of madness, wasn't it? His hands curled, he clawed at the lid of the box, the lid of his tomb-

_Maybe I can sleep in this box. Maybe I will die in this box. Maybe I am dead and it is my coffin. I can't move, can't struggle. Am I dead? I can't scream, can't even gurgle. I am pathetic. There's a lid. They're putting a lid on. A whimper. Mine? I am alive. I am alive! Don't trap me here! Don't lock me in here! Hammering. The box is shaking. They're nailing it shut? I'll be buried alive, you'll bury me alive! I deserve this, don't I? It'll be over soon, then. No, claustrophobia. Darkness, suffocation, silence, let me out!_

-and his fingernails broke against the wood, but still he clawed. Vaguely, he could feel splinters in his flesh, he could feel some wetness of blood. It felt at once as if he'd been frantically digging for hours and as if he had only been struggling for a few minutes; it was impossible to tell, and really it didn't matter. He had to escape this prison, this tomb. He would not die here! Breathing was becoming harder and his right hand hurt deeply-

_-her death. The pain of her death will never leave me. It is my fault. I couldn't protect her. I had promised that I would, and I could not. I could not protect her son. She is dead, I can feel my heart shrivel and bleed. I can feel tears inside, but I cannot shed them. Shaking, numb, watching her life ebb away and her son being taken from her. She died so that he could live and she will never hold him. My fault. This wound I feel should never heal, I never want to forget the atrocities I committed! _

-and he was beginning to register the pain. Panic gripped him though, and he didn't care. His left hand didn't hurt. He could use that one, there was scraping on the left side. He was getting through. Scraping, the sound of metal against wood. Metal?

_I have no left arm. What's that feeling? It's cold. He has something. Putting it on my arm. Where my arm used to be. What is it? Does it matter? It hurts, the pain. Focus on consciousness. Don't give him the satisfaction of watching me pass out. Stay awake. Blackness, darkness, laughter again. Mine or his? I wish I knew. Does it matter? Screams, laughter, pain, blood._

He was dimly aware that his left arm was no more. That a metal parody of flesh had replaced it. If he had ever been human, ever deserved to be treated with dignity and respect, there was no chance of it now. This fake extremity, this claw - it must be a claw, if it's digging through the wood - was proof enough for that. He began to dig at the lid with renewed vigor.

_I'm still alive! Let me out! Don't bury me alive!_

But the one who had entombed him here had foreseen his attempt to escape, had reinforced the box, and eventually, metal scraped against metal and he cried out, a wail of frustration. It came out sounding like a pathetic guttural gurgle, but it had all the feeling of his deep loss. It held the emotion of one who has lost not only his life, but any reason he had ever had to live. Old habits kicked in before he could try for a better scream. Calm down, don't panic. The job had taught him this.

He let his arms fall weakly to his sides again, took stock of the situation. He was trapped, and would inevitably die-

_-escape here, must break free! Must get away from him. At least let death release me. He says I cannot die now, cannot truly rest. He lies, surely he lies, make it end! Struggling, can't break free!_

-here. He probably would not suffocate, for while he had no concept time or date, he estimated that enough time had passed that without access to oxygen he would already have died. But still, food and water was a problem. It was likely dehydration that made him so disoriented, that made him unable to piece together jumbled memories.

So he would die soon, and panicking would not help him. If he slept, perhaps he would not suffer as much, although the wounds in his soul were remembering their pain, breaking open and bleeding. If he could even fall asleep, he would be met with nightmares. He had a strange feeling he deserved them, though.

_I am a sinner. The professor is right. Everything is my fault. I have caused this myself. I was never human. I am a monster. He is only completing my transformation._

Monster. He felt a stirring in his mind, a frightening beast living in the back of his brain, waking up, thirsting and hungering. It wanted blood. Vincent wanted blood, wanted the blood of his foes to stain his claws, to eat the flesh of those he destroyed, to devour the weak and glory in frenzied slaughter! He would have laughed, if his vocal chords would have allowed it at that time. He merely wheezed instead. No, not human.

_I'm an experiment now, part of the Project. The cells he injected me with will slowly turn me into a monster physically as well as mentally. I cannot stop it. It is fitting. It is the inevitable. I will be a monster with no control, irrational, impulsive, hungry. I will kill. It will be the same as it always was, without the illusion of humanity to spoil it._

And he remembered when he lost his humanity, when the woman he loved had died. And it had been his fault. He could not protect her. She had wanted her son to be a part of the Project and he had not dissuaded her from that. The child was not his, or if it was, he had no right to claim it. It was not his decision; she was the mother, and it was her decision to make.

He remembered the pain on her face, how it contorted her features from serene to suffering. How the suffering turned to terror. The screams, the sobs. He remembered her reaching out her arms to hold the child, remembered the look in her eye. She had been resigned to her fate, resigned to her death. But she wanted to wish her child goodbye, and yet even that was taken from her.

He remembered trying to remedy that. Remembered the gunshot wound. Remembered the pain, the nightmare that followed. And he remembered being told over and over again that this was his fault. It was because of his sins. He deserved it.

And he believed it. It was his fault.

He would sleep. Even if he could escape, even if he could figure out some way to remove himself from this box - a coffin, he realized - he would not. He deserved to be here, removed from the world. He was not fit to live in the world of light, but rather chained to the darkness by the darkness in his heart. He could only cause pain and hurt and suffering, and he did not want to cause that again. He would not cause that again.

He would sleep in atonement for his sins, he would allow himself to die, to rest forever, without complaint, for not only that was the only course of action left to him, but it was also his way of apologizing. It wasn't enough. It could never be enough. But he would sleep and let the world go on without him. He was Vincent Valentine, formerly a Turk, currently a monster. And he would sleep in his lair, never to emerge.


End file.
